


Gotcha!

by mintwitch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-11
Updated: 2013-07-11
Packaged: 2017-12-19 03:50:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/879099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mintwitch/pseuds/mintwitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vaguely inspired by a movie that I saw many, many, many years ago. Short and silly. Falls somewhere within the same universe as my other Sherlock stories, so more or less canon, at least in spirit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gotcha!

 

Sherlock is dragged from the depths of relentless, horrific boredom by the banality of his bladder. He’s been plucking at the Strad long enough for his finger to be sore and red. Day has apparently dawned since he last bothered to care about the rotation of the earth. Sherlock spends a few moments contemplating the permeability of the human eyelid to certain types of radiation. When he thinks he can bear to look at the boring, tedious, awful world, Sherlock opens his eyes.

 

His ears, nose, and tongue, the hairs on his body, the feel of the draft had already told him that he was alone in the flat. Now sight joins the chorus. His eyes skip across furniture, floor, and walls, absorbing the clues that will tell him when John left, where he went, how long he plans to be gone.

 

No jacket. John’s trainers are beside the door, but his boots are gone, the combat-style pair that he calls “cripplers.” He left his keys on the hook, but took his wallet. There is one more mug beside the sink than the last time Sherlock looked and there are three stained and tattered green footbags atop the stack of books on the coffee table.

 

Sherlock leans forward, setting aside the violin. His eyes sharpen and a smile quivers at the corners of his mouth. The game, it seems, is afoot.

 

There is no point in leaping from his chair and rushing to dress. John left long enough ago for the scent of tea to fade, for John’s own complex aromas to dissipate into the general smell of the flat: the combined odors of two adult males, Sherlock’s experiments, Mrs Hudson’s experiments (John calls it “baking.” Sherlock knows better. Baking and cookery are chemistry, and quite difficult chemistry, at that.)

 

Instead, Sherlock rises slowly, taking in everything around him. Particles of dust catch the afternoon sunlight. The cushion on John’s chair has relaxed enough to carry only a slight imprint. It takes four hours for it to reach that level, as the foam and feathers decompress, expand.

 

Pacing over to the desk, Sherlock examines the surface, opens John’s laptop. He’s wiped the history and cookies, and left the machine running a cleaning and repair utility. Clever, clever John. It’s likely John didn’t even use it to design the game, or at least not recently, and is merely taunting Sherlock with the possibility. Sherlock could stop the utility and attempt to reconstruct the last hours, days, or even weeks, and end up wasting time, chasing a phantom.

 

He lets it run, instead, and investigates the kitchen. A plate in the sink, breadcrumbs. A single tomato seed, slightly gelatinous. Tomato and cheese sandwiches--John always eats at least two. An apple missing from the bowl on the counter, but no core in the bin. John took extra food, plans to be gone long enough to get hungry, and it might not be convenient wherever he is. Where ever he planned to be approximately an hour ago, rather.

 

Sherlock checks the time. Fourteen-hundred. John left at ten, after eating enough to keep him for three hours, at which point he expected to find an apple in his pocket convenient. Will he discard the core or keep it with him? Where was John an hour ago?

 

What happened to the apple core? Sherlock’s mind circles the question, races in widening gyres through the streets and alleys of London while he showers and dresses. He leaves his hair to air dry, and ties on a sturdy pair of lace-ups in conscious mimicry of John. Where would John need a jacket on a warmish Spring day? Heavy boots meant for walking and running on a variety of terrain? Far enough from home that John’s normal brisk walk--approximately 4.85 kilometers per hour, he is short, after all--will take him out of range of a chip shop three hours after his last meal.

 

But John took his wallet. Will he need money or identification? His Oyster card? Taxi, Tube, entrance fee, gate guards, or simply being conscientious, careful? Misleading? Sly John; cunning John.

 

Sherlock spares twenty minutes to search the flat, rifling through John’s clothes, the dirty laundry. He’s wearing jeans, a vest, shirt and jumper. Sherlock is confused that all of John’s socks are accounted for, spending an extra five minutes shaking out the legs of all John’s dirty trousers, then stripping his bedding. John would not, under any circumstances, wear those shoes without heavy socks. Has he been hiding socks from Sherlock, preparing for this?

 

No, that’s ridiculous. Sherlock is on the verge of lifting John’s mattress, when it occurs to him that two people in this flat wear socks. Leaping back down the stairs, he careens into his own room and yanks out his sock index. John has stolen his gray woollies. Madness! Beautiful madness, distracting Sherlock for nearly seven minutes.

 

He bounds out of the flat, scooping up the footbags and dropping them in his coat pocket on the way. Sherlock’s heart is pumping, moving his blood, feeding oxygen to his brain which slots the pieces into place, click-click-click. His feet move south, sure now, consuming the pavement in long, decisive strides.

 

A light jacket, sturdy shoes, an apple. Phone and wallet, no keys. The blue footbags--blue to tag Sherlock. A four hour lead, with a three hour time check, at 4.85 klicks per hour, is 13.7 kilometers to disposing of an apple core, someplace where casually eating an apple is fine, unnoticed, even to be expected.

 

Fastest route? Not on foot, too far, major routes, likelihood of death by lorry driver. Jubilee line to Waterloo to Reading? An hour. Cab, mid-day traffic, no major events to disrupt patterns, construction at Portabello Road, thirty-four to thirty-eight minutes.

 

Sherlock stops, throws out a hand. “Taxi!” he bellows and the cabbies of London answer the call of their overlord. “Richmond Park!”

 

The half-hour drive is spent researching the Park. Sherlock already knows about the deer, but the park is also full of ponds and sloughs, cyclists, tourists. A million ways to dispose of a single apple core, thousands of places to hide. By far the largest park in London, but half the fun of hunting John is that John makes Sherlock guess. The last leap has to be intuitive, based on what John knows of Sherlock, and Sherlock knows of John.

 

Richmond has too many options. Saw Pit, Gibbet, Gallows--all custom made to tickle Sherlock’s fancy, but John would know that Sherlock would think that. Bluff or double-bluff? Spanker’s Hill or Kidney Wood might appeal to John’s sense of the absurd, especially after Irene Adler or the cancerous organ with the smiley-faced tumor that Molly showed them.

 

“Where to, guv?” the driver asks him, as they near the park. “There are only a few car-paths in the Park, proper.”

 

Sherlock has to make a decision. North or south, east or west? John would have entered the north end of the park almost 2 hours ago, now, long enough to have gone two hours in any direction. But he would get hungry again, soon, and he has his wallet, and no certainty that Sherlock is in route. That’s part of the game. John’s wonderful, marvelous game.

 

He chooses. “Southwest, junction of King’s and Queen’s Roads.” Three hours from Baker Street to Saw Pit, 20 minutes to eat the apple and watch a deer consume the core, 30 to 40 minutes to Gallow’s Pond, 30 minutes to exit the park. Sherlock is 15, maybe 20 minutes behind. No, the damnable socks! He’s 25 minutes behind, at best.

 

Sherlock tosses money at the cabbie, and jumps out as soon it slows. He slams the door behind him and spins, his coat swirling. Is John still walking, or is he tired? He wore good walking shoes, but he’s also hungry--it’s possible he’s been in a pub for one to 25 minutes. If the latter, it should be within Sherlock’s sights.

 

Nothing, just tidy homes, side by side, fronting the park. Sherlock is not familiar with the pubs in this area; he’s thoroughly researched every possible place to get a pint within 15 kilometers of Baker Street, but John has moved the game just out of range. Demonic John! Sherlock pulls out his phone, and has just brought up Google when a small, round object thumps him square on the back of his head.

 

Sherlock swings around, spotting the blue footbag, even as he hears John sprinting away with a maniacal giggle. The steady sound of the doctor running spurs Sherlock into action. He grabs the footbag and drops both it and the phone into his left pocket, even as he races after the sound of John’s steps. He reaches into his right pocket for one of his own weapons.

 

John may have scored the first point, but Sherlock is determined to score the second and third. But what the doctor lacks in leg, he makes up in quick. He corners faster than Sherlock and can slide through smaller spaces. He’s obviously cased the neighborhood several times, or perhaps he’s familiar with it from the past. Maybe one of his girlfriends or Army mates lived in the area. It’s always something.

 

John has somehow gotten far enough ahead that Sherlock can no longer hear him running, and he’s nowhere in sight. The detective slows down to a trot, a pace that he can maintain indefinitely, while still being able to observe. A ripple to his right, schoolchildren as an exercise in chaos theory, an anomaly has passed among them. Sherlock follows, John’s wake a path left clear, and Sherlock can see him, pelting across the green, arms and legs pumping, head down.

 

As soon as Sherlock is clear of the children, he puts on another burst of speed, gaining a yard, two yards. He winds up his pitch and releases, just as John leaps up to grip the top of the wall, to swing over. It hits him in the back, a little left of center, but still a solid point.

 

“Hit!” yells John, and grins over his shoulder as he drops to the other side. Sherlock doesn’t bother to leap the wall; the gate is only a few yards over, and he’ll lose less time detouring. Longer legs, but not quite the same power in his shoulders, and Sherlock’s coat will create a drag, or possibly a choking hazard. Risk-benefit analysis: negative.

 

John has managed to cross the street, putting both parked and moving vehicles between himself and Sherlock. He doesn’t have a clear shot, but neither does John.

 

Sherlock dodges across traffic, weaving between mid-priced, new-model family vehicles, tires and brakes squealing, drivers beeping in panic. Trees overhang the pavement, obscuring his view, but he pursues in the direction that John was moving at last glimpse. Ahead, the residences appear to give way to a small commercial center, anchored by what is probably an inn.

 

There’s a lorry parked, and Sherlock smirks as he slows, scanning underneath for feet lurking in ambush on the far end. But there are no feet. He drops to all fours, head craned, and another footbag smacks him on the shoulder, and then another. To his left, Sherlock can hear John crowing with glee.

 

“Gotcha!” he yells, waving over someone’s hedge. John had actually trespassed on private property to set up the score. Scores. Remarkable.

 

Sherlock looks down at his right hand, gripping his weapon, but with his full weight on it, the footbag useless while mashed onto the paving. He looks back at his blogger and friend, flushed with victory, pleased that he’d suckered Sherlock into dropping his guard. Sherlock had not been bored for a single minute of the last 90.

 

Grinning, Sherlock stands, pocketing his own weapon and those that felled him. He dusts off his hands and the knees of his trousers, letting John gloat for a moment. Then he schools his face into mock disdain, which just makes John giggle more.

 

“I will allow that you have triumphed, but only by cheating. You left greater London.”

 

“I don’t recall ever agreeing on precise boundaries. I believe you were the giant git who bragged about knowing every road in London. I do believe, in fact, that the phrase ‘and surrounding areas’ might have been spoken.” John saunters around the hedge, strolling towards Sherlock with his hands in his pockets, the very picture of smug satisfaction. “Which means that you are buying me dinner. Again.”

 

“Hm.” Sherlock sniffs and nods up the lane. “I take it that is our destination?”

 

“You take right. And I’m starving, so let’s go.” He turns and bumps shoulders with Sherlock, still smiling broadly. Sherlock smiles and bumps back, falling into step with his blogger. He barely remembers being bored.

  


_finis_


End file.
